


The Problem With Normal

by riwriting



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1990s, Angst, Anxiety, Book Omens, Book Omens Week (Good Omens), Book Omens Week 2021, Gen, Missing Scene, Warlock is normal, canon typical Crowley having an anxiety attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:48:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28978413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riwriting/pseuds/riwriting
Summary: The night before Warlock's birthday party, Crowley calls Aziraphale.  Something is wrong.  The kid is too normal.-----The thing was – the thing was – the thing was – between him and Aziraphale, they had control over everything dealing with the Antichrist for the last eleven years.  Either they or their teams had been around that kid since day one.  They should know all the variables.  They should be able to identify whatever this wrongness was.  Instead, everything was spinning, spinning, spinning...and it felt like the next rotation was the one that would send it all out of control.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 38





	The Problem With Normal

“ _Crowley finally said what he had not even dared to think for the last decade. 'If you ask me,' Crowley said to his counterpart, 'he's too bloody normal.'”_

\- Good Omens, p. 81

Crowley was cleaning. He wasn't cleaning because his flat needed it. His flat was already pristine, because the sort of human Crowley tried to be would have kept it pristine. It was more something to do to keep busy.

Several years earlier, Crowley had read in a self help – no, not self help, because demons didn't need that – self improvement – no, not that either – he had read in a random book he'd picked up for no reason other than to irk the angel by frequenting a competitor (Crowley ignored that people buying books at places not-Aziraphale's was preferred by the angel)...

Well, he had read that keeping busy could help prevent that awful feeling of not being able to draw a proper breath that one got when they knew the other shoe was dangling overhead in a way that made Damocles' sword seem like amateur hour. After all, you never knew whether Damocles' sword would actually drop; Crowley knew the other shoe  _would_ .

He was too normal.

The Antichrist.

Warlock.

He liked collecting  _stamps_ , for Someone's sake!

Crowley tossed the sponge he'd been using to diligently scrub non-existent stains into the sink with more force than necessary. He scowled. While he wasn't exactly an expert on Raising Antichrists, having only been around the one, he had watched plenty of humans grow up into the sort of awful nightmares Hell could only dream of their prince achieving. There were always signs, little whispers that something wasn't quite right about them. His fingers curled around the edge of the counter and he leaned forward. There were always signs and, for his existence, he had not seen them from Warlock. The boy was too  _normal_ .

Before he could fully realize what he was doing, he had marched into his office, lifted the phone, and begun dialing. The thought that, perhaps, this was a bad idea, dashed into his brain as the phone began to ring.

What was he doing? What was he even supposed to  _say_ ?  _Yes, hello, how are you? I am having a panic attack over the Antichrist again. How is your evening going_ ?

On the other end of the line, the phone rang again.

He should hang up. Right now, the only person who knew he was doing - whatever _this_ was - was him. Crowley tried to take a deep breath. The not-self-help articles said that would help. They hadn't really explained what to do when taking a deep breath felt impossible. He was-

The next ring cut off midway through. “I'm sorry.” Aziraphale's voice came over the wire, sounding not one bit sorry, “We're currently closed. Please call back during our business hours.”

“He's good at maths,” Crowley blurted.

“Crowley?”

“He's good at maths, Aziraphale,” he repeated. He stared at the wall. Crowley was somewhat aware that his free hand was running through his hair. He should probably stop, since he'd gotten it gelled into...well, it wasn't like anyone could see him right now. He forced his hand to lay flat on the desk anyway.

“I'm sure,” the angel said after a pause, “That there's some infernal purpose for it. Perhaps he needs to be able to count Agents of Chaos in the lead up to the Final Battle.”

“ _Aziraphale_ .”

“Well,” he scoffed, “ _I'm_ not a demon. I  _certainly_ do not understand how your side thinks.”

“He  _collects stamps_ .” Crowley said. He turned, the chord of the phone wrapping around his body, and leaned back against the desk. “He thinks they're neat. Stamps, Aziraphale.”

“Crowley...” Aziraphale started.

“That's not cool!” Crowley exclaimed.

“Why,” Aziraphale asked, “Does 'being cool' matter? He's taking over the world. When were any of the humans who did that 'cool'?”

“They thought they were,” Crowley muttered.

“Yes, and everyone else told them they were, because no one wanted to be the one to admit they were not, as you say, ' _cool_ ,'” Aziraphale said. “Telling a king or an emperor or a conqueror that collecting stamps isn't cool enough for world domination is a good way to get your head separated from your body, after all.”

Huh. Well, he hadn't thought of it like that, but maybe –  _maybe_ – the angel had a point with that one. Crowley unwound himself from the phone cord. “He's afraid of dogs.” 

“Who is?” Aziraphale asked. “The Antichrist?”

“Yeah. Ashtoreth had one. Bloody big thing.” Crowley said. “Rover. The Antichrist was terrified of it.”

“Well,” Aziraphale sounded too reasonable for someone who knew there was a blessed good chance the world was about to end, “That means he's more likely to send away a large hell-hound, then, doesn't it?”

Crowley sank into his plush carpeting, the phone still clasped to his ear. “I suppose....” He leaned back against the nearest leg of his desk.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale sounded almost hesitant, “Correct me if I'm wrong, but wasn't him being normal the whole  _point_ of the last decade? Weren't we trying to somehow get him to that, that level of humanness that the rest of them have, so that he may not go through with this whole thing?”

“What if we made it worse?” Crowley leaned his head back against the desk and pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand. “What if, in making him more  _human_ , we made him more awful? You've seen what they come up with, Angel. Hastur  _wishes_ he could be that evil.”

“I've also seen the good things they come up with,” Aziraphale said. “So have you. I believe you said some of them were better than the agents of Heaven could ever hope to be.”

“Maybe I said that to get under your skin,” Crowley said. He dropped his hand to his side and let his fingers sink into the carpet.

“You like that they can go from awful one minute to selfless the next.” Aziraphale said softly, sounding almost kind. “You like their free will. You like when they choose to be better.”

“I do not,” Crowley protested.

Aziraphale was silent. The judgment radiating over the phone line was not.

“Look, just...don't say that so loud,” Crowley amended. He glared at the ceiling, his mind spinning. Something was wrong. He knew something was wrong. He just didn't know  _what_ . He couldn't even narrow it down far enough to build up contingency plans. The wrongness - it was something with the Antichrist. He knew that much. But beyond that? He gritted his teeth.

The thing was – the thing was – the thing  _was –_ between him and Aziraphale, they had control over everything dealing with the Antichrist for the last eleven years. Either they or their teams had been around that kid since day one. They should know all the variables. They should be able to identify whatever this  _wrongness_ was. Instead, everything was spinning, spinning, spinning...and it felt like the next rotation was the one that would send it all out of control.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked. “Are you still there?”

“What if it wasn't enough?” His voice sounded small and lost, and he hated himself for it. He tried to clear his throat and pull himself together. He was a demon. He was supposed to be...well, not this.

“Do you want to know the truth?” Aziraphale asked.

“You'll tell it to me regardless,” Crowley said sourly.

“Not necessarily,” Aziraphale corrected. “I'm quite good at telling people comforting things they want to hear, if that's what they need in the moment. I don't know what you need right now.”

Crowley frowned as his mind snagged on the least relevant bit of that information. “Hold up. Isn't lying against the Big Ten?”

“I don't  _lie_ ,” Aziraphale sounded huffy. “I  _comfort_ . I am an  _angel_ , Crowley.”

Right. He rolled his eyes.

“Well, then,” Aziraphale made the decision on his own. “Here's the truth. Whether we did enough or not – it's too late to change it. You and your team did all you could. My team and I did all we could. It is now out of our hands. He'll either choose to start it all or he won't.”

“Because it's ineffable?” Crowley couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“Because you can't go back and redo nearly eleven years in one night.” Aziraphale sounded too sensible for someone who knew the world could end tomorrow.

“Easy for you to say,” Crowley said. “Your side is supposed to win.”

There was a long pause. “Crowley?” Aziraphale sounded hesitant. It was the sort of hesitancy that came before the walls that the angel built around himself lowered ever so slightly to show what was really behind them.

Crowley became very still and listened.

“In Hell,” Aziraphale continued, “What do they tell you about the End?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do they talk about being overrun by the Forces Of Good?” Aziraphale asked. “Is it Doomsday? Or is it...”

It took him a minute to put it together. It had never occurred to him – not once – that Aziraphale doubted the company line on  _that_ . But, perhaps, it should have. After all, Crowley had been fed the same lines from his side. Hell spoke of the End as if victory was guaranteed. Every demon Crowley came in contact with acted as if it was a Sure Thing. It was just that Crowley had existed long enough to know that you couldn't guarantee anything in a war. He also couldn't forget how they hadn't exactly won the first go-round.

He took a moment to imagine what it might be like to be on the other side. They had the same propaganda, surely. He'd heard as much from Aziraphale. They also had the benefit of winning the first war, so they knew they  _could_ win. Then again, anyone who had been in a war knew that the most dangerous enemy was the one with nothing left to lose. Who were demons, when you got right down to it, but those with nothing left to lose when the End arrived? They'd either be victorious or they'd be utterly destroyed once and for all. It was a powerful motivation...

Crowley swallowed, then asked, “You think we'll win?”

“No!” Aziraphale said quickly. “No, of course not! We'll...well, you know. We'll win. Of course. It's ineffable.”

Well. That answered that. “Your question. About what Hell says,” Crowley heard himself speaking slowly. “They call it things like our moment of eternal triumph. They brag about how we will emerge in some, some sort of glorious victory. They're convinced it's all preordained.”

“And you?” Aziraphale asked.

“There isn't going to be a winner.” Crowley said. “Whatever side technically emerges victorious, they're the winners of what? A wasteland. The earth is destroyed. The humans all die. There's nothing left. And everything on Earth – they're all caught in the middle of a war they never asked to be a part of, while two much more powerful forces destroy themselves and everything around them. Where's the Divine Glory in that? What happened to mercy and service and loving your neighbor in that, Aziraphale?”

There was a pause. Then, “Do you really think I don't feel the same way?”

Crowley let his head drop. “I know.” A sigh managed to escape. “I know you do, Angel. I just....”

“I know.” Aziraphale said, his voice heavy. “I don't want … well.” There was a shaky breath on the other end of the phone. “Look, as you said, he's normal. He hasn't done anything particularly Hellish. That has to be a good sign. We always knew our best chance was if he turned out to be normal.”

“And if he's not?”

“If he's not normal?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “What if he's not? What if he wakes up tomorrow, goes 'happy eleventh to me! I'm the Antichrist! Time to end this place!'”

He must have sounded somewhat hysterical, because Aziraphale said, “Crowley.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I called because he was too normal,” he said. “But what if I'm thinking about this wrong and-”

“ _Crowley_ .” Aziraphale repeated.

“What do we  _do_ , Aziraphale?”

There was a long silence. “We get ready for tomorrow.” The angel was resolved. “And hope we've done enough. Now, then, what time are you picking me up?”

Crowley blinked. “Huh?”

“Well, we're both going to this birthday thing,” Aziraphale was matter of fact once again. “It seems silly for us to each make separate travel arrangements. Why don't you swing by the bookshop around eleven? Yes, that sounds good. We should have plenty of time.”

“Right. Uh,” Crowley wasn't sure what to do, so he said, “I'll come by at eleven.”

“Lovely. I'll see you then.” Aziraphale said. The phone clicked.

Crowley moved the receiver away from his ear and stared at it. Aziraphale had hung up. He had just hung up, like they were about to meet for lunch and not as if everything was on the verge of falling apart. Crowley had called the angel because Aziraphale was the one who could make things okay. He was _supposed_ to make it okay. Yet all Aziraphale could say was they had to hope they'd done enough. Some comfort that was. Hope the world wouldn't end. Hope he wouldn't lose his home. Hope there would still be ducks and Bentleys and prissy angels and wine collecting and....

Hope that the sun would rise, that the seas would not turn to blood.

Hope he wouldn't lose his only friend.

Hope that one eleven year old child would not rip away the only things he had ever cared about. _We hope we've done enough_. He shut his eyes, resting his forehead against the receiver. “And if we haven't?”

The silence echoed in response.

**Author's Note:**

> I had hoped to have a longer piece completed for Book Omens Week 2021, but that piece is only about halfway done. As I was flipping through my copy of the novel, the scene from the British Museum jumped out at me. I also pulled inspiration from a couple of other scenes in the novel, mixed it together, and found a missing scene set between their lunch and Warlock's birthday party.


End file.
